Page 84 of Savage Protector

“More?” Fred shrieks. “Tell me what you want!”

Apparently, he has his answer. He swings his whip again, and again, leaving vicious stripes crisscrossing the boy’s back, shoulders, and buttocks. Each blow is met with an agonised scream, and the lad is hanging limp against the bars.

“Christ, they’ll kill him at this rate. Is he even conscious?” None of us is exactly squeamish, but even the hard-nosed Tony is looking a bit queasy.

They’re voting.Frankie is texting again.It’s like something out of Ancient Rome. Thumbs up or down. There’s a LOT of downs.

Fred gets to work again. The whip whistles; the boy seems to be convulsing under the blows raining down on his thin body. Almost no pale flesh remains, he’s being shredded to ribbons by the vicious flogging.

“What the…?” This is beyond entertainment, even the most hardcore sort. “That poor little git’ll never survive this,” I growl.

“Fuck. I think that’s the plan.” Tony is on his feet. “They’re making a snuff reel.”

I’ve heard of those, a murder committed on camera and streamed for the enjoyment of anyone watching, but I’ve never had direct experience of it. It’s sick, if you ask me.

I get the impression Tony thinks so, too. Porn videos are one thing, but…this?

“What do we do?” I hiss. “We can’t let them just?—”

“Can you stop that bastard without actually killing him?” Tony demands. “We still need a word with Fred, so we can’t lose him just yet.”

I’m only about thirty metres from my target, a piece of piss. I have my 460 Smith and Wesson in my hand almost before he finishes issuing the order. Not as accurate as my preferred M107 semi-automatic, but perfectly lethal at this range. I level up the sight, squeeze the trigger, and Fred’s whip hand explodes in a gory tangle of flesh, bone, and blood.

He drops to his knees with a scream to rival those of his victim, cradling his ruined limb. His screams reverberate from the rafters, and he rolls across the dusty floor, while the others gape at him in wide-eyed horror.

“Zee, take out that camera, then we move in, fast.” Tony growls our orders.

I take aim at the camera, still rolling. A couple of bullets put an abrupt end to the filming. We don’t need our images broadcast in glorious technicolour to whoever might be watching the live stream. Satisfied we’re alone, as one we surge from the shadows, guns drawn, to surround the bewildered group who can do nothing but cower in front of us. Not one of them so much as appears to be contemplating retaliation or any sort of defence of their stricken leader.

“Unless any of you feel like discussing this shitshow with the police, you can fuck off now.” Tony’s tone is arctic. He tells them their options.

At first, no one moves. They are all immobilised with terror, rooted to the spot.

“Or we could execute the fucking lot of you,” Tony suggests. “Your choice.”

They are galvanised into action. Equipment is abandoned as they make a headlong charge for the roller shutter, clamouring on the reinforced steel until Beck unlocks it and raises it for them. They disappear into the night, the pounding of boots echoing in the dark. In moments, the only sound remaining is Fred’s anguished sobbing and pleading.

Tony checks the boy and apparently finds a pulse. He unstraps him from the timber structure and lowers him facedown to the floor then turns his attention to Fred. “You two, get that piece of shit into our car. Wrap him in a tarpaulin, I don’t want him bleeding all over the boot.”

I tear down one of the plastic sheets they had been using as a screen, and Rome helps me to roll Fred in it. Meanwhile, Tony has his phone out and dials nine-nine-nine. He gives brief instructions to the ambulance controller. I don’t give much for the boy’s chances, but it’s the best we can do for him at this stage.

Between the four of us we haul the still-screaming Fred across the floor and out through the shutter. It’s no easy feat; he’s fighting like a banshee and must weigh going on for twenty stone. Rome sprints back to where we parked the SUV and brings it closer. Somehow, we succeed in shoving Fred into the boot and slamming the lid down.

“No, leave the shutter open,” Tony commands Beck who is about to lock up the warehouse. “Let them find that poor git more easily.”

“What about the gear? Should we…?”

Tony shakes his head. “No point. We’re short of time, and this vile enterprise is finished anyway, the police will confiscate the equipment. The plods are not the brightest things on two legs, so we might as well leave the evidence intact for them. Every little helps.”

We dive back into our vehicle and in moments we’re peeling away from the warehouse, Fred thrashing and wailing in the back and promising to disembowel the lot of us as soon as he gets the chance.

Yeah. Right.

19

Leila

I wake up,stretch, and reach out my left hand.

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